


it's something we don't do

by taeynalicia



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: (you've been warned), Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M, Paris - Freeform, hold onto your hats this is a ride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 04:13:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11912976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taeynalicia/pseuds/taeynalicia
Summary: "There is a dangerous glint in Monty’s eyes as he says: “How do you feel about boxing?”Then: a whirlwind of activity that throws Percy’s thoughts clean from his mind, and, somehow, barely five minutes later, they’re in a coach on its way to Montparnasse."Paris, from Percy's perspective





	it's something we don't do

 

Percy is determined.

He is trying, truly trying to enjoy every last minute of this tour — to hold onto every laugh that falls from Monty's lips so he can replay them over and over, to grasp onto every memory with all his strength so that not a second slips away. Because this year is the last chance he’d have to be with his best friend, the boy he’s loved for years. This would be his only good bye, before being locked away for the rest of his miserable life. And goddammit, he is going to love every single second of it if he has to die making it so.

But _Christ_ , is Lockwood making it difficult.

“It's of the utmost importance for gentlemen your age to maintain variety in their education,” he is saying, three weeks into their stay in Paris, a good twenty minutes since he’s called Percy and Monty into the sitting room. He hasn’t halted his speech in that entire time, explaining in painful detail why they simply _must_ attend the lecture on “Synthetic Panaceas” tonight. It’s nearing the eighteenth minute since he's begun — Percy has been counting, as a distraction from the pounding that’s beginning in his head. His eyes are fixed on the window to keep himself from glancing at Monty, who remains uncharacteristically silent, which only means that his expression of boredom and annoyance is sure to be comical enough to send Percy into hysterics.

Monty isn’t even trying to hide his displeasure with how his tour is turning out —not that he is ever very good at hiding his thoughts about anything. The past week in particular he’s been especially vocal while moaning about the city and the sights and the social excursions while Percy tries to reassure him that he likes the operas (which is mostly true - though he'd have preferred a music hall) or that the history is interesting (which is stretching the truth to put it lightly) or that Lockwood isn’t _so_ unbearable (which is — well, a bald faced lie and they both know it) — all this in an effort to remain in denial that these few months (the _last_ few months he’d ever get with Monty) are shaping up to be a disappointment.

 _At least_ , he thinks wryly, _the time isn’t flying._

Lockwood transitions over to berating them — or mostly Monty, to be honest — for his lack of manners. This is a favourite topic of his, and between his droning voice and the glare of the sun through the window, the pain behind Percy’s eyes is becoming unbearable.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Percy interrupts, not the least bit sorry. “But I’ve a terrible headache. I think that I'll just retire early.”

Lockwood flaps his mouth open and shut a couple times, as if halting his train of thought has completely robbed him of the ability to form sentences. Perhaps it has. At any rate, Monty is much quicker.

“Oh, Perce, that’s awful,” he says, affecting a dramatically concerned expression, pushing his lips down into a deep frown, but he can’t hide the mischievous twinkle in his eyes when Percy met his gaze. Percy has to stop himself from smiling dreamily back. “You can’t possibly go out if you’re not feeling well.”

“But then —” Lockwood starts, stops, frowns, and tries again: “You’ll not be attending the lecture?”

Percy figures the false start came from Lockwood’s inability to decide whether this is a positive turn of events. On the one hand, he’s never hidden the fact that he didn’t think it was proper for people like Percy to be milling around in high society, but on the other, Percy has proven himself to be the far more sensible of his charges, and being left alone with Monty probably terrifies the poor fellow.

“I’m afraid so,” Percy replies, forcing an apologetic smile.

"Well then, Mr. Montague, the two of us will simply —”

“Oh no, I won’t be going either,” Monty cuts in. Percy’s impressed that he keeps all the glee in his eyes out of his voice. “It wouldn’t be right to leave Percy here by himself while he's unwell. I’ll stay to look after him.”

“Well, Mr. Newton, if you feel you need —”

“I do need him. Uh —” Percy coughs to hide his embarrassment at the wording. “I’d feel better if I had someone with me.”

“Very well, then.”

“Best retire,” Monty chirps, jumping up from his seat and all but skipping for the door. “We’ll take dinner upstairs, tonight. Don’t set places for us.” Then he leaves the room, leaving no space for Lockwood to argue. Percy follows, offering a small nod to a bemused Lockwood as he passes, the man's mouth still open to speak, though he has no one left to talk to. Percy wonders if he’ll continue his speech anyway; he seemed so devoted to it. Percy’s head throbs at the thought and he rushes to catch up to Monty on the stairs.

* * *

 

Dinner arrives in short order once they get to Percy’s room and they choke it down with barely a moment for a word in between. Monty immediately flops back onto the bed, while Percy tries valiantly to focus on a book rather than the beautiful boy sprawled across his bed. Neither his headache nor his racing heartbeat are overly supportive of that endeavour, so he soon gives up and lies back next to Monty.

“This was the best idea, Perce. You’re a genius,” Monty mumbles, voice muffled by the bedspread he’s lying face down on.

“Huh?” Percy replies.

Monty lifts his head and places it on Percy’s shoulder, looking up at him as he continues: “Faking illness to get out of Lockwood’s evening entertainment? That’s abso-bloody-lutely inspired. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“I’m not faking,” Percy says, and feels his pulse jump when he sees his breath ruffle Monty’s curls as he speaks.

“‘Course,” Monty laughs. “Who wouldn’t have a headache after listening to Lockwood speak for that long?” Then he shuffles around until his nose is pressed against Percy’s neck, swinging one leg over to rest between Percy’s. Percy feels his arm lift to run through Monty’s curls without his permission, but in a last ditch effort to save his skin, he redirects its path to grab for his book again. The decision has absolutely _nothing_ to do with the way it lets his arm rest around Monty’s shoulders as he holds the book up in front of his face, Percy assures himself.

His eyes refuse to focus on the words, circling back again and again to the same sentence as his brain decides its energy would be much better spent hyper-fixating on the path of Monty’s breath across his skin and reminding him pointedly of the exact location of his thigh. His pulse is racing in such a way that Monty would be able to see it if he only opened his eyes. But he remains oblivious; breathing even and body relaxed. Not a sign that their closeness is having any affect on him, but then, Monty does tend to spend a lot more time closer to a lot more people than Percy. There is no reason that cuddling up to him should be anything special by comparison. And here Percy is, barely hanging onto the shreds of his composure at the feel of his breath.

Percy moves his arm to drop the book back onto the bedside table, finally giving up on the pretence of being entertained by it. Monty hums, drowsy and irritated, at the movement, and Percy never can deny him anything, so he returns his arm to its position, lightly resting his fingers on Monty’s shoulder. His eyes itch to glance at the other boy’s expression, but he resolutely closes them and lets the sound of Monty’s soft breathing lull his mind into blankness.

He wakes to the feeling of Monty moving off his chest and the sun, now low in his sky, glowing through his eyelids.

“Where are you going?” Percy mumbles, blinking his eyes open, annoyed to find his headache has returned with consciousness.

“I'm going to find alcohol,” Monty replies, sitting up and pulling on the coat he discarded earlier. “There’s got to be at least one servant in this house willing to give it to me.” He turns and smiles, bright and mischievous. Percy’s heart stutters at the sight, then leaps when Monty reaches out to tap his nose. “I’ll say it’s for your head. You really are brilliant.”

If Percy’s heart wasn’t slowly clawing up his throat, he probably would have pointed out that alcohol is _not_ a cure for headaches, nor anything else, despite what Monty might think, and that he does in fact have a headache which his “brilliance” has nothing to do with. Instead he smiles and scoffs and says, “Good luck with that, darling,” in an only slightly strangled voice. He considers that a victory as he lies back down and the door clicks shut.

He tries valiantly to get back to sleep, but his mind insists on replaying every moment they spent pressed together on this bed: the way Monty’s head felt against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin against Percy’s neck, his smile — his abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous smile, two inches from his face. He thinks about how easy it would have been to lean forward and feel that smile against his own lips, feel it slip away as Percy grips his bottom lip in between his own and —

Percy presses his fingers against his eyes, desperate to clear the images out from behind them and sits up. He drops his hands and blinks, glancing around the room for something, anything to distract him. His lingering headache pushes his gaze away from his abandoned book towards his fiddle. That carries more promise, until he remembers that he is meant to be too ill to move at the moment.

Though the closed door, he hears the faint sounds of conversation: Monty’s voice, and Felicity’s. For a brief moment, he considers joining them, swinging his legs over the bed and taking a step closer, but when he hears the words “bottle of port” and “tell Lockwood”, he makes an about turn and stands by the window instead.

The thing about being in love with one’s best friend, Percy has learned, is that it is impossible to get over, not when one spent nearly every waking minute and quite a few sleeping ones by his side, when said best friend flirts with everyone with a pulse and has no concept of propriety and personal space, causing Percy to be at daily risk of a heart attack.

He doesn’t even know when he’d crossed that line from friendship to love; it crept up slowly, until Monty was returning from Eton, and Percy thought he could feel the bruises on Monty’s face landing on his chest and feeling the world fall out from underneath him as Monty wished he were dead, and feeling the most burning hatred towards his father — and under all that, cursing the way he still felt jealousy for that _stupid_ Eton kid that got to have Monty, even for a little bit.

It got impossible to ignore after that, but sometimes, on days like today, when the two of them are alone and Percy gets to have Monty draped over him, his flirty grin pointed his way, it’s easy to pretend that _maybe_ , Monty feels something back.

The other thing is, though, it really doesn’t matter if he does. Rather, it’s probably better that he doesn’t. Then, Percy would never know what he’d be missing, would at least know that Monty would move on from him, find some gentleman or lady to fill his heart and days and make him so happy he’d forget Percy someday and never think to wonder why he’d never actually returned from law school.

Not exactly the most comforting of thoughts, but if he has to spend the rest of his days locked away in an asylum, at least he knows that Monty will be alright without him. That it wouldn’t break his heart, as well as Percy’s.

The door bursts open and Percy turns. There is a dangerous glint in Monty’s eyes as he says: “How do you feel about boxing?”

Then: a whirlwind of activity that throws Percy’s thoughts clean from his mind, and, somehow, barely five minutes later, they’re in a coach on its way to Montparnasse. The trip passes in a blur, Monty explaining rapidly his conversation with Lockwood, and marvelling at Felicity’s rebellion (“And for some science lecture, of all things!” he exclaims. “Absolutely mental, that girl.”) and then pulling Percy out and through the crowded streets into an even more crowded boxing ring.

The room is brutally hot and terribly loud, their supper is nothing but cheap beer, but Percy is still having more fun that he has in weeks, pressed tightly against Monty in a corner, laughing when their conversations devolve into repeated shouts of “I can’t hear you!”. They make a couple bets and win back enough money to get them enough alcohol for the rest of the night before Percy convinces Monty that _yes_ , he was serious about the headache and _no_ music halls are certainly not boring. Monty must be truly drunk or just high off the thrill of sneaking in, because he gives in easily and follows Percy into a music hall a few streets over, spending a good portion of their cash on a private box. If this is to be their one night out in Paris, Percy isn’t eager to share Monty with all the other drunken patrons.

Not when the hazy candlelight is making his skin glow, and the heat of the hall makes him toss his coat aside, his white shirt pressing against his chest and he’s laughing like he’s never been happier in his life. Between _him_ and the alcohol and the music, Percy can’t resist pushing closer and resting his chin on his shoulder to ask him if he’s enjoying himself, though he hopes he already knows the answer.

It’s a shock when Monty leans in further and closes his teeth lightly over his ear, and he yelps in an effort to prevent himself from moaning. Monty replies, “No, but you are,” as if he hasn’t just set all of Percy’s nerves alight.

He’s right, of course. Music is one of Percy’s favourite things in life, and his other favourite is sitting next to him, far too close to be considered proper. The night is shaping up to be complete perfection, and a nagging voice in the back of his head is calling out that it’s too good to be true, that it’s a dream he can’t have, and it will hurt like hell when he comes down. He shoves that voice away, having entertained it too much earlier that day to let it ruin the night as well.

He hardly notices the poet come on stage and doesn’t mark any of his words, but does feel sympathy for the poor man as the patrons unite in showing their distaste. Monty joins in, and Percy shoves him for it. “Stop that.”

Monty, the little troublemaker, holds his ground. “He deserves it.”

“Why? Poor thing. He’s just a poet,” Percy defends,  thinking about the little foolish verses he used to write in the margins of his journals, and how terrified he would be to get up and read any of them.

“Is more reason needed?” Monty shoots back, nearly upending the table with his feet. Percy privately thinks he’ll have to stop him from ordering anymore tonight, or they’ll be paying for broken furniture. “Poetry is the most embarrassing art form. I can sort of understand why all the poets off themselves,” Monty finishes.

“It’s not so easy,” Percy insists, though he can tell Monty is getting on a roll now, one that will certainly be amusing to witness.

And, sure enough, he continues, “‘Course it is. Here, attend,” with a whack to Percy’s head because he’s still got his eyes fixed on the stage - a self preservation method, because if he looks adoringly at Monty or laughs it would give the game away. Still, he turns, because damn, this’ll be too good to miss. “I’m going to write a poem about you. ‘There once was a fellow named Percy, who …” He falters and breaks off, and Percy can’t hold off his laugh any longer.

“I thought you said it was easy,” he teases, and sips at his whiskey for courage while Monty struggles with the lack of rhymes in the English language. Percy never was a _great_ poet, but he’d written enough verses about Monty to last a lifetime. He figures he can come up with one suitably vulgar as to make Monty laugh that loud, genuine laugh of his. He puts down his drink, takes a breath, and starts: “There once was a young fellow I knew, named Henry Montague.”

Monty interjects, complaining about the unfairness of his easily-rhymed last name, and Percy takes a second to finish the poem in his mind, smiling wickedly as he thinks up an end.

“He drinks lots of liquor, and never gets sick-er. And he’s four inches longer than you,” he says grandly, and _yes_ , there it is, that beautiful laugh. Percy beams at the sound, leaning back and closing his eyes to enjoy it fully.

“Oh, Perce. That was beautiful,” Monty gets out between laughs. And then: “I should share it with Lockwood.”

Percy sits up straight, already imagining the lecture he’d face if Monty did. _God_ , he’d be in his room for a week with a headache after that one. “Don’t you dare.”

“Or at least write it down -” Monty continues, smirking.

“I swear to God, I shall never speak to you again,” Percy threatens, though they both know he doesn’t mean it.

“Perhaps I’ll say it back to myself as I’m falling asleep tonight.”

Percy, having lost all shreds of his maturity, kicks Monty’s chair, which sets him giggling again. When he regains his balance he demands Percy make another one.

Percy leans forward affecting a thoughtful expression as if he can’t think of what to say next. Truth is, he knows exactly what he wants to say, it’s just dangerously close to the truth. But, maybe, it’s time he tried to play at Monty’s own game, tried to throw him off his guard a little, just to see what he’ll do. He squares his shoulders and starts grandly, “Monty often smells of piss.”

“Well I like this one significantly less.” Percy smirks at the interruption, but a significant portion of his attention his focused on steeling his nerves for the last line.

“But he plays a mean hand of whist.” Monty likes that line better, he thinks, and he pushes on to the final lines: “Though Lockwood may doubt him, there’s something about him, that everyone just wants to …” He stops, heart racing, heat rising into his cheeks, trying to play it off as a dramatic pause as he tries to read Monty’s reaction.

Monty’s face shifts into a softer smile, lips crooked and eyes glinting; dangerous, that smile is. “Go on, Percy.”

Percy finds that suddenly he can’t, his heart racing with fear and anticipation, his mind insisting he play this out a little longer. “What?” he asks innocently.

“Finish it.”

“Finish what?”

“Your poem.”

“My what?” God, he knows this isn’t working, but it’s buying him a few more seconds at least, to enjoy the little annoyed crease that’s forming in between Monty’s eyebrows and to try to choke down the fear building in his throat and choking out the rest of his thoughts.

“The rhyme, half-wit.”

“Does it rhyme? I didn’t realize. Oh, wait…” He makes a show of going over the words in his head, like he didn’t have this planned from the start, and _damn him_ , he’s regretting it now. “I hear it now,” he laughs nervously.

Monty leans in further, close enough now that his face is filling Percy’s field of vision, causing his mouth to drop open foolishly. “Come now, what were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” Percy says, his mind reeling through every word he’s ever learned, searching for something to fill in the rhyme, anything that’s not -- “I don’t remember.”

Monty’s not giving in. “Yes, you do. Go on.” Percy hums, hoping it comes across thoughtful and not desperate. “Do you want to finish it or do you want me to keep pestering you?”

“Ah. Bit of a tough choice,” Percy says. Then, oh, _then_ , Monty presses his foot against Percy’s leg, right where his stocking has slipped, so his shoe is against Percy’s bare skin, and he wonders how his face can somehow get warmer, especially when his blood is certainly rushing elsewhere.

As he’s surely gaping like a fish, Monty moves in for the kill, that _bloody_ smirk still painted on his lips. “That everyone just wants to what, Percy? What is it exactly that everyone wants to do to me?”

And, oh, Percy’s helpless. “Fine.” He breathes a steady breath, and secretly, he’s thinking about how eager Monty’s been this whole time, how insistent, and maybe, just maybe, that means he _wants_ this too. He tries to smother both his smile and his hope at that thought. “Though Lockwood may doubt him, there’s something about him, that everyone just wants to kiss.” He rushes to finish the verse, then finds he can’t make himself look at Monty’s eyes, too scared of what he’ll find there. So he tucks his chin, laughing quietly to dispel his nerves, and tries to lift his gaze, but it gets stuck somewhere around Monty’s lips, which have fallen out of that smirk into something resembling a gasp, and Percy’s tongue flicks out to wet his own lips without thinking, and God, he couldn’t be more obvious if he --

He never gets a chance to finish that thought, because Monty’s lips are suddenly on his and anything intelligent is driven from his brain, leaving only an emotion resembling several exclamation points in a row.

For a heartbeat, he stays perfectly still, scared that if he acts whatever magic spell that’s fallen on him will wear off and he’ll find this has all been a dream. The next heartbeat, his brain supplies him with one insistent thought: _kiss him back, you fool_.

So he does.

He raises one hand to the back of Monty’s neck, the other coming rest on the small of his back and pull him closer. His eyes fall shut and his head tilts, his lips moving gently across Monty’s, still soft, still tentative, still terribly frightened that this is all a dream, but he’s never felt more awake in his life. The haze of the alcohol fades from his mind and every place where his skin touches Monty’s is in sharp focus. His heart is tripping and shuddering and racing all over the place, and then —  

And then Monty begins to move. His lips press back against Percy’s, deepening the kiss and quickening the pace, pulling Percy closer with hands that _won’t stop moving_ , driving Percy wild as they trace through his hair and over his chest, leaving a burning heat in their wake. A second later he’s slipping his tongue through Monty’s lips in retaliation, but Monty’s only fazed a second before Monty is rolling his teeth over Percy’s lip -- _exactly_ the way he’d thought about earlier. And then he’s gasping and tumbling forward until they’re sharing Monty’s chair, and their hips are pressed together, Monty’s thighs pushing against the inside of his own, and his hands are suddenly up inside his shirt, the noise of the music hall and the other patrons and the whole bloody world forgotten in the haze of Monty’s kisses.

Percy’s head tips back as Monty’s mouth slips to his neck and his hands are slipping down to tug at the fastenings of his breeches and — oh _Christ_ . He should have known that Monty would be good at this, but he never thought _he’d_ be the one that Monty would be kissing, drunk and happy at the end of the night, and all it’d taken was was a stupid poem, and _God_ , if only he could have this all the time.

That thought tears at him, echoes through his mind just enough to pull his eyes open, though he longs to shut them and throw himself head first into the sensation of Monty’s teeth on his jaw. But now a whole new set of images are racing through his head -- waking alone in Monty’s bed, watching Monty flirting with a beautiful stranger, even kissing them and _not a soul can keep their hands off me_. If this is — if this isn’t anything to Monty, he doesn’t think — he can’t. He has to know.

“Monty,” he tries to say firmly, but it comes out breathy and wrecked, and Monty sucks a little harder on his pulse point. It takes all his willpower to lift his hands from where they’re splayed out on Percy’s back, lifting them to yank Monty’s face up to his. “Wait. Stop,” he manages to choke out. The words feel heavy on his lips, they grate his throat on their way out.

Monty’s eyes are hooded, his breath comes quick and shallow. “What is it?”

Percy forces himself to meet his gaze evenly, though his heart is still racing out of control and he wants nothing more than to say _damn it all_ and tug him back in until they’re both kissed senseless. He struggled to keep his voice steady as he asks, “Is this just a laugh to you?”

Percy doesn’t think he’s ever felt more terrified for the answer to a question. He feels as if everything in his life leading up to now and everything after is teetering on an edge, and that only Monty can pull him back up, or push him over, letting everything shatter beyond repair.

Monty says, “No,” and Percy’s heart soars, he gasps, probably, and he certainly looks a fool for how wide his eyes go, but he can’t make himself care. Until — “Yes. I dunno. What do you want me to say?”

And everything shatters — the haze, the dream they’d been floating through all evening, the hope he’d felt. Possibly his heart. He thinks he can still feel it dropping, though, so it can’t have broken yet.

“I want…” He starts, for a moment considering telling the truth but — _Yes. I dunno._ “Nothing. Forget it.”

“Well, why’d you stop, you goose?” Monty asks, voice light and cheery and, oh, there it’s gone and shattered now. Monty’s leaning in again, and Percy feels a lump build in his throat, forcing himself to move away, though his body is screaming at him to do otherwise. Part of him still wants to, but he _can’t._ Not when this is _nothing_ to Monty, but everything to him. Not when he’ll have to pretend it never happened tomorrow.

“Don’t.” It takes all his strength to say it, and it comes out so very, very small.

For a few moments, neither of them move. Percy keeps his eyes fixed downwards while he tries to hide the emotion in his face, prays his eyes aren’t glassy.

Monty breaks the silence. “Fine,” he huffs out.

“Really? _Fine_? Is that all you have to say?” he says, finally lifting his head. It comes out sharper that he means it to, but all the swirls of emotion from earlier and the heartbreak is churning into something sharp and angry in his stomach.

“Fine by me,” Monty snaps back, and suddenly Percy’s being shoved to the floor. He swallows down a sob he feels building and focuses all his energy into his rising anger, letting it course through his veins so he can’t feel anything else. “You started it. You and your daft poem.”

 _You kissed_ me _,_ he thinks, why _did you kiss me?_ He starts to button up his pants, pushing them together forcefully to hide the way his hands are shaking. “Right of course. This is my fault,” he says, and he knows it’s true. He shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have crossed the line, and now he’s ruined _everything_.

“I didn’t say you it was your fault, Percy, I said you started it,” Monty insisted.

Percy scoffed, too tired to play semantics. “Well, you wanted it too.”

“ _Too_ ? I wanted it _too_?”

He cursed himself mentally. “You know what I mean.”

“I really don’t. And I really don’t care. God, it was just a kiss!”

Percy wants to cry, he wants to scream, to yell that no, it wasn’t, it couldn’t ever be _just_ a kiss for him. But he’s tired and his heart hurts, and he just wants this night to be over. He wants to run back to his bed and curl up and cry himself to sleep, because he doesn’t think he’s ever hurt this much before. “Right, I forgot you’ll kiss anything with a mouth,” he bites out, voice brittle.

His legs almost give out on him as he stands, and Monty reaches out to him, asking him if he’s okay. He knows it isn’t fair, but that little act of kindness makes his anger flare again. Because it isn’t fair, that Monty can treat him like normal, like the kiss hasn’t changed or meant anything, when Percy’s chest is collapsing on him. “You just shoved me and now you’re asking if I’m alright?”

“I’m trying to be decent,” Monty replies.

“I think you missed that chance a long while ago,” Percy says cruelly, hating himself for the way Monty recoils and his face twists.

“God, Perce, why are you being such a prick?”

Percy can’t answer that, can’t explain the twisting pain in his gut and the pounding behind his eyes -- from holding back tears, this time -- so he breathes deeply and turns away. “Let’s go home.”

“Fine,” Monty agrees. “Let’s go.”

That’s the last thing either or them say all night.

They walk home in silence. Paris still buzzes around them, music and raised voices spill from doorways, but they only make Percy feel tired, now, and after a few moments he doesn’t even notice his surroundings at all. His thoughts pull him inward. They whisper to him, reminding him that he’s ruined it. That he’ll spend the last few months he has with Monty in this cold silence they’ve maintained on the walk home — Percy will be unable to move past this disaster of a night - his mind is even now replaying the memories of heat and light and deliriousness from before - slowly pulling him undone - and Monty, he’ll remain oblivious and undoubtedly angry at Percy, unable to understand his distance. He can see it already, the two of them growing further and further apart, until Monty hardly remembers why he’d been so adamant that Percy not leave to Holland in the first place.

Percy can’t let that happen. He should apologize now, offer a lie as an explanation, and bridge the gap between them before it can grow wider. But he’s not sure if he can. He’s not sure if he can bear that careful dance they’ve always been stuck in — close, _so_ close but never close enough — especially not now when he’s tasted him against his tongue and felt his teeth on his throat. When he’s heard _Yes. I dunno_ , and _it was just a kiss_ and felt his hands shoving him away.

He swallows past the lump that’s forming in his throat again, forces his thoughts down, and focuses on taking one step after the other.

Half an hour and a thousand years pass, and they’re back at the house, pushing the door open and tiptoeing up the stairs. Monty reaches his room first, and he pauses, turning on the threshold to look back at Percy, who can’t help but freeze as he feels his gaze on him. Monty opens his mouth as if to speak, but only shakes his head slightly,  then disappears behind his bedroom door.

Percy lingers in the hallway for a little longer, feeling frozen in place by Monty’s stare. He enters his room and sees the rumpled bedsheets, his book abandoned on the nightstand, their plates from dinner still on the floor. He wishes more than anything that he could be falling asleep in Monty’s arms again, like he had that afternoon.

With that thought, all the anger he’s clung onto slips away, leaving in its place a terrible emptiness.

He sits heavily on the bed, puts his head in his hands and promises himself that he’ll fix things, that he won’t let these months slip away, that he will hold on to his friendship with Monty. That he’ll push down all his heartbreak and work to make things just like they always have been, not enough, but so, _so_ , good nonetheless.

He is determined. He will.

But not tonight.

He takes three deep breaths and then he starts to cry.

 

**Author's Note:**

> same, Percy. Same. 
> 
> i'm on [tumblr](https://felicitymontague.tumblr.com), if you'd like to come yell at me.


End file.
